A Different World

Summary

Mitch Reilly is a drifter. He works for cash, skirts the edges of the law and when something inside tells him the time has come, he moves on. But now, after a decade without roots, he’s found the love of a lady, a crowd of friends and a good job. He’s ready to abandon his nomadic lifestyle and settle down.

When a police officer is brutally murdered after issuing a random traffic ticket, Mitch finds himself on the run, chased by a vengeful cop and hunted by a mysterious individual named Mr. Cole. Although he’s certain they’ve never met, Cole bares more than a passing resemblance to someone Mitch loathed in the past and worse, he knows more about Mitch than humanly possible.

Cole lives in the shadows, a man without a conscience who harbors a devastating secret that jeopardizes mankind’s future. He needs Mitch’s help to change the world for his own personal gain and he’ll leave a trail of death behind, if that’s what it takes to force Mitch to do his bidding.

A world away, Raymond Albright lives a stable life without adventure, a contented existence that revolves around his family and his career. When a tragic accident takes it all away, Ray ends up in prison. Sentenced to death, tormented by an unsympathetic warden and a sociopathic inmate, his date with the firing squad is growing closer, as is his chance to make amends.

Ray and Mitch’s lives are about to collide and these unlikely allies will have to work together to save themselves and possibly, the entire human race.

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A Different World - Kevin Lamport

SMASHWORDS EDITION

Copyright 2018 Kevin Lamport. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Many thanks to the usual suspects… Chad, Colin, Elyza, Jason, Monty, and Sara. And, of course, as always, Shona.

Thank you to the good people at Scribendi

https://www.scribendi.com/ for their editing services.

Thanks to Damonza https://damonza.com/ for their professional cover art and formatting services.

This is for Molly Lamport

Cosmic Inflation – An explosive scaling-up of spacetime a tiny fraction of a second after the Big Bang. Some parts of spacetime expanded more quickly than others, creating bubbles of spacetime that then developed into other universes… the multiverse.

Multiverse – The hypothetical set of possible universes, including the universe in which we live. Together, these universes comprise everything that exists: the entirety of space, time, matter, energy, and the physical laws and constants that describe them.

The known universe has its own laws of physics, while other universes could have different laws, according to the multiverse concept.

"The past is a foreign country.

They do things differently there."

L.P. Hartley

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Epilogue

Two points…

Prologue

Florida, October, 2022

Will we see Ariel tomorrow, Daddy?

Ray Albright swallowed a yawn and said, I’m sure we will, Tinkerbell. He reminded himself to pay attention. Making the right mouth noises like he normally did when he wasn’t too interested in a conversation, didn’t work with Angie. She peppered everything she said with questions. From the moment she towed him down the jet-way into the wonderful Florida heat, chattering like an excited chipmunk the entire way, she’d barely slowed. She took after her grandmother in that respect—another lady who never stopped talking.

Six hours later she was still asking questions.

Can we go on the Finding Nemo ride tomorrow?

I’d like a red apple on a stick, okay Daddy?

Ray cut his eyes toward his wife in the passenger seat of their rental car. She was asleep, or conveniently feigning sleep, judging from the slight smile that played on her lips. Ray thought he might have faked sleep too if he’d been in the passenger seat instead of driving. He’d make Dawn pay for this trickery. Maybe he’d insist she go on that silly Small World ride two or three times in a row, just her and Angie, while he sat in the shade with a bag of peanuts and some icy lemonade. That plan came with its own risk. He’d have to listen to them both hum that song all afternoon.

Ray answered his daughter’s questions patiently. Of course, we can go on the Finding Nemo ride, and, Maybe after lunch you can have a candy apple.

His answers seemed to satisfy her, and he thought his little blonde dynamo might finally be winding down. The pauses between her questions had grown longer, and when he looked at her in the rearview mirror, she sagged in her car seat and jerked her head up a couple of times as she fought sleep.

He spotted their rented condo poking up above the horizon, only a few miles down the road. Three traffic lights at the most, only one complete stop if he got lucky and caught the greens, and then he’d be done for the day. Ray blew out a silent sigh of relief. He was exhausted. Chasing a five-year-old around the Magic Kingdom all afternoon was harder than a full day at the office.

The three of them left Chicago early to reduce the stress of dealing with line ups, crowds, and the Neanderthals working security, not one of them with an ounce of common sense. Angie fell asleep the moment she sat down in the airplane, which probably accounted for the extra energy that carried her through the day. Dawn dozed the entire four-hour flight. He was the only one who hadn’t napped. Now he was ready for some down-time. He wished he could bottle Angie’s energy or tap it somehow. There’d be no late mornings this week. Not in Orlando with a five-year-old. There’d be no relaxing around the pool and no three-hour-long candlelight dinners, holding hands across the table with his wife.

Far from it.

Tonight they dined at a buffet where Disney characters mingled with the guests while they ate. Angie’s eyes widened when they walked into the restaurant. She hadn’t come close to eating her share of the twenty-dollar-a-plate buffet, although she collected three autographs in the autograph book she insisted Ray buy. He made a mental note to have a word with the daycare teacher who, bent at the knees and looking Angie right in the eyes, asked if she was going to eat supper with Snow White and the dwarves, thereby firmly lodging the idea in his daughter’s head.

Can we go in the swimming pool when we get home, Daddy?

It’s very late, Tinkerbell. I think the pool is closed. He gave Dawn a second sidelong look, saw her smile with his answer.

Daddy? Is Mommy sleeping? Angie’s voice dropped to a very loud whisper. Mommy, are you sleeping?"

Dawn said, A little bit, my girl.

Ray reached across and patted his wife’s thigh. He left his hand there and she smiled softly and he heard a low purr that sounded like happiness and contentment.

In the exaggerated whisper Angie said, I like vacations, Mommy.

Dawn opened one eye, then slowly and lasciviously, she licked her upper lip. She grinned and Ray choked down a laugh because they both knew an evening of sweaty fun wasn’t going to happen on an Angie vacation. Yes, my girl, Dawn said. I like vacations too.

Angie said, What are we going to do tomorrow?

One of her favorite questions. Ray said, We’ll figure something out, Tinkerbell. But first, a beer for himself and a glass of wine for Dawn, perhaps ten minutes of TV, feet up on the coffee table.

Dawn’s eyes were closed again, but she must have sensed his glance. The same contented expression as earlier crossed her face. It filled him with warmth, and he thought he would have done anything in the world for that special smile. He wanted to brush the back of his hand across her cheek, so he could feel her softness and prove she wasn’t a dream. He never got tired of looking at her.

He signaled, switching lanes. The condo was only half a mile away now, thank heavens. This was how Angie must have felt, just before she climbed into one of those preposterously big teacups. Anticipatory. He couldn’t wait for the day to be done.

The stoplight in front of them—the last stoplight—turned from red to green. Ray didn’t even need to slow his rented Ford Focus.

He thought about Dawn’s suggestive lip-lick and wondered if there was some kind of Disney daycare of which they could take advantage. Park Angie in a big room with fifty overly stimulated children and spend a couple of hours enjoying some adult fun. It was a wonder Disney hadn’t thought of it. When it came to making a buck, they covered most angles. Maybe the idea wasn’t wholesome enough for them.

From the backseat, five-year-old Angie said in a voice that finally sounded tired and possibly a little condescending, "Maybe we’ll see the real Tinkerbell tomorrow, Daddy."

It was the last sentence she ever spoke.

Part 1

I am not the author of this trouble but grant me the strength to exact vengeance.

Genghis Khan

Chapter 1

Florida, December, 2022

A low-slung BMW sedan idled unseen in the back corner of an empty parking lot, away from the glow of the overhead streetlights. The dark tint on the vehicle’s windows made the rainy, overcast night blacker than it really was. Three men sat in the car, one on the middle of the back seat, the other two comfortably ensconced in the front buckets. In contrast to the driver who waited in complete, sulky silence, the individual in the back couldn’t shut up.

He said, We ain’t kids anymore, Eric. This is real. You nervous?

Eric Dalrymple stared out the sedan’s passenger side window without answering. He was keyed up for sure, but nervous? He wasn’t certain. Possibly. Sitting motionless took all his effort. There was a weird hollow spot right in the center of his stomach like a bulls-eye, but he thought the feeling was excitement more than nerves. Nerves implied fear, and there was no way he’d admit to being afraid. Not to anyone, particularly Dom.

Dom said, without bothering to wait for a response, You’ve gotta do this on your own.

This wasn’t new information. Dalrymple nodded. He thought Dom was the nervous one, the way the man yo-yoed on the edge of the seat making the plush leather squeak.

Chou was a different story. The little Asian wheelman was clearly feeling the pressure, fidgeting behind the steering wheel, fiddling with the stereo volume. Sniffing noisily. The dashboard lights cast a satanic red glow on the lens of his Killer Loop Sunglasses.

Dalrymple wasn’t sure how Chou could see through the dark shades well enough to drive, and the incessant sniffing chafed his nerves like knuckles down a cheese grater. He didn’t care for slopes in general, but he was starting to dislike Chou on a personal level. The Asian had loaded up on coke before they left. Blow sharpened his senses, he said. The chemical also made a guy paranoid. Dalrymple knew this and unease rippled his body. He didn’t trust dopers. Fucking weaklings. He was happy to sell the shit, but he sure wouldn’t use it and he didn’t trust any fuck-wit who did.

Dom said, We’ll drop you off. Wait for you to get it done. You can’t just scare him, though. You gotta kill him. That’s how it goes. Freeze up, we’re gone. Do it right, you’re in.

Dalrymple nodded.

You got your piece? Is it loaded? Dom barely paused. It’s clean. No numbers. Don’t drop it, though. We’ll lose it later at the bottom of the lake. The cops will never find it.

Dalrymple turned away from his reflection in the passenger window and looked over his shoulder at his friend. Seemed like only yesterday he and Dom were punching kids out on the school ground. Stealing lunch money. Now his initiation was minutes away and Dom was running his mouth two hundred miles an hour, not saying anything Dalrymple didn’t already know. They’d been through all the details, the procedure, a dozen different times. Dom’s constant chatter was almost as irritating as Chou’s sniffing.

I got the gun, Dalrymple said. I know the deal. Now shut up, would you?

Dom slicked a long strand of black hair behind his ear. He kept talking like he hadn’t heard a word. It might be a woman. Some hot-looking bitch. Don’t matter. Pop her. Centerfold or not.

Dalrymple’s fingers caressed the side of the pistol he held on his right thigh. I said, shut up. His voice was flat as day old soda.

Dom stared at him. After a beat or two, he nodded. Okay. You’re ready. Making a statement, not asking a question. He slapped a hand on Chou’s shoulder. He’s ready. Let’s roll.

The Asian jerked as though shot.

Dalrymple guessed the coke-induced paranoia was kicking in.

Chou turned the stereo down and fired up the Beamer. He revved the engine and had to turn the volume back up for them to hear the music. When he pulled onto the road, the back tires squawked as they grabbed asphalt.

Fifty-five, Dalrymple said before Chou had a chance to get up to speed. His tone didn’t invite debate. You’re not at Daytona. No point getting pulled over for speeding, all the guns in the car.

Chou bobbed his head and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the rap music pouring out of the Beamer’s speakers. Casually, as though it was his intent all along, he set the cruise control to fifty-five. The highway, a black and yellow ribbon, unrolled in front of them. The BMW’s brilliant blue-white halogens lit up the night like two small suns in a galaxy of darkness. Sporadic raindrops pelted the windshield. The road was quiet.

Then, in the distance, a pair of headlights stabbed the night.

Dalrymple stiffened and had to force his muscles to relax into an unnatural calm. Okay, maybe I am nervous.

For the first time that night Dom sat quietly. His arms were stretched across the top edge of the back seat, his hands rolled into fists. Chou leaned forward in his seat, bracing himself in position with both hands tight on the steering wheel. A muscle twitched rhythmically in his jaw.

The approaching lights filled the Beamer’s windshield. They grew larger as the vehicle drew closer, until they filled the entire sedan. They did not vary in intensity—the driver did not blink his headlights rapidly between high and low, reminding Chou to dim the BMW’s high-beams. Then it flew past in a cloud of mist, leaving the interior of the BMW dark once more. Nobody in the sedan made eye contact as the coiled tension wound down. Chou coughed quietly into the back of a hand. After a couple of seconds Dom leaned forward, a mad jocular grin on his face. He laughed and there was a touch of hysteria in the sound. That was awesome.

Stress, like a knotted rope between Dalrymple’s shoulders, loosened. He smiled. Dom had a way with words. The previous irritation with his friend disappeared.

They drove on, beneath a row of streetlights on one side of the road, past a strip mall on the other, all the shops locked up tight except for a late-night Chinese takeout anchoring one end. The tires were whisper quiet on the road. The occasional vehicle flew by in the opposite direction, but no one flashed their brights. So far it seemed the BMW’s blinding high-beams hadn’t offended anyone.

So far.

Chou entered a long sweeping curve. The strip mall disappeared behind them. In front of them a fresh set of headlights burned the night, two indistinct blobs in the drizzle covering the windshield. Seconds stretched like an elastic band. When the wipers cleared the rain away, the headlights sharpened. Doubled. One vehicle became two. The first vehicle, an ancient-looking Ford pick-up, drove past without incident. Whoever was driving the second vehicle wasn’t as forgiving. He flashed his lights back and forth from high to low half a dozen times, making Dom shout, That’s the one! You shoot him, Eric. Don’t matter who it is. Dead.

Chou stabbed the brakes, bringing the sedan to a stop on the shoulder. Hey, man, he said. His voice was higher than normal. That was a cop car.

Don’t matter it’s a cop. The initiation don’t change.

Shut up. Both of you, Dalrymple snapped. He’d seen the Ford truck and right behind it the black and white. Let me think about this.

It don’t matter it’s a cop, Dom said, more insistently. You still gotta—

Dalrymple silenced him with a look and a hard, slicing motion of his hand. He wasn’t about to mess up his initiation. He couldn’t. Not if he wanted more responsibility. Not if he wanted to get away from pushing bags of crack and into more important jobs like collecting and enforcing. But, a guy didn’t shoot a cop without due consideration. He rolled his head in a tight, quarter turn, and heard several satisfying cracks and pops. After several moments of careful thought, he said, Follow him, Chou.

In front of them the light bar on top of the cop car came alive, scattering gems of red and blue light into the night.

I knew it.

Dalrymple heard panic in the Asian’s voice. How had the little slope ever become a wheelman? When the night was over the two of them were going to have a pointed conversation, Dalrymple decided.

Pass him when he pulls over, Chou. Nice and easy. And, turn that noise on the stereo off. You call that music? I need to think. Dalrymple rubbed his chin. The dark red bristles scraped across the back of his hand. The pig must have pulled the first guy over, the guy driving the pick-up truck. He spoke slowly, working it out as he talked. We’ll drive by, do a U-turn up the road a little way, sit there and wait. When the guy in the truck goes by, that means he’s got his ticket. Pigs always sit on the side of the road for a few minutes afterward, wrapping up the paperwork. What not. I’ll do it then.

He rested his arm on the door’s windowsill and tapped his fingers slowly on the corner of the dashboard. Every inhalation and every exhalation came a little faster than normal, but each breath was even. Controlled. He thought about what would happen next—the murder of a completely unsuspecting stranger.

Killing an enemy, no matter how difficult the circumstances, didn’t provide any particular mental challenge. For one reason or another, an enemy deserved a bullet. An innocent, on the other hand, a stranger picked out at random who wasn’t involved in any way… Well, the physical challenge remained the same, but the mental challenge suddenly became enormous. Success validated his worth to the organization.

Dalrymple held his hand out in front of him, palm down. It didn’t shake. He decided he wasn’t nervous. Enemy or innocent, it was all the same to him.

Half a mile away the light-bar on the roof of the cruiser went dark.

Dalrymple raised the Beretta and pulled the pistol’s slide back with his thumb and index finger. It slammed forward with an oily, metallic clang, chambering a round.

Here we go.

One dead cop coming up.

Initiation complete.

Chapter 2

Mitch Reilly’s life stretched out in front of him in the same way a road stretched out in front of a person driving a car. His road was less traveled than the average, but the ride was essentially the same for everybody—you can see into the future a little bit, and now and then the surface gets bumpy but typically smooths out again, and now and then a curve comes out of nowhere that needs to be handled with more care than usual. On rare occasions the curve turns into an unexpectedly terrifying bastard of a hair-pin that keeps going and going and going… like the night Step-And-A-Half drank too much and Mitch got pulled over driving the man home.

It started out pretty much the same way as any other Friday night—beers after work with the rest of the crew, the first two going down fast, washing away the heat of the day and the thick taste of tar and roofing shingles sticking to the back of his throat. Then Step-And-A-Half switched to double Rye and Sevens. Mitch sighed and muttered, Oh, man. I need a ride. You gotta get tanked tonight? He pushed away what remained of his third beer and ordered a Diet Coke.

For the next couple of hours not much happened, except Step-And-A-Half became blind drunk, and Mitch pocketed his truck keys. Most of the others guys got fired up pretty good as well, Mitch buying the rounds because he knew they’d remember him with a thankful smile in the coming days, when he didn’t show up for work.

He sipped his soda and watched them make less and less sense, feeling that strange blend of humor and impatience a sober person always feels in a crowd of dumb-ass drunks, a little regret in the mixture too. These were the last memories he’d have of these people. The ringing sound in the center of his brain had begun five or six days ago. The sound—the tinnitus—was like a mosquito trapped deep inside his head. Almost indiscernible in the beginning, intensifying as the week passed. Now it sounded like a dentist’s drill, a shrill hum that meant tonight was the night, if history proved anything, that his life would change significantly.

For the eleventh time.

When Step started slobbering and looking for a fight, Mitch decided the time had come to run the man home and then drive himself to wherever he needed to go. Somehow Step would find his ancient Ford in the morning. He always did. If the search took a little longer than usual, well, Mitch wasn’t worried. He’d be long gone by the time Step got around to being angry. Too bad really. Mitch would have enjoyed watching his buddy swear and fume and carry-on when he discovered his pick-up truck wasn’t parked in his driveway.

Everything went according to plan until a police car lit him up, Mitch wondering what the hell? He was doing everything right. Watching the speed limit. Coming to a complete stop at every red light. He was in big-time trouble if the police officer was in a bad mood because he couldn’t be locked up when the tinnitus peaked. It had never happened, not once in over a decade, but the dread living inside murmured, "It could happen," and sent worms of fear sliding across his skin.

Mitch rolled down the window. A warm wind puffed, blowing infrequent drops of rain the size of pebbles into his face. The air smelled damp and heavy. It felt like a monster of a storm was hiding just over the horizon. He watched in the truck’s door mirror as the officer walked toward him and told himself, Deep calming breaths. Be polite. Don’t give him a reason to bust your balls.

He wished he’d shaved that morning, cleaned himself up, made an effort at looking presentable. Instead, when the alarm jangled, he deliberately rolled around hard enough to rouse Liv. He figured she’d go back to sleep when he left, so he didn’t feel too guilty about waking her. They fooled around—Liv squealing in mock pain and outrage at the abrasiveness of his scratchy face on her smooth skin—and when they were done, there was no time to shave before he left for work. Now he regretted it. Sitting in what Step referred to as his classic, more of a wreck in reality, with a police officer coming his way, Mitch thought looking a shade more respectable might have been a good idea.

The officer had a hard, no-nonsense face and a cop’s typically stiff, authoritative bearing, but a fan of deep laugh lines at the corner of each eye gave Mitch the impression he might be reasonable. Mitch wasn’t optimistic. When it came to police officers, his cup was in broken chunks on the floor, never mind half-empty. His dislike stemmed from fear. When a man with a uniform and a Glock has the power to lock you in a cage, he doesn’t have to make an effort to understand the gray areas. The tinnitus meant Mitch spent a great deal of time in the gray areas—petty crime was a matter of survival.

The officer wore a flat-brimmed hat, the kind with the strap that clung to the back of his skull. He held a Mag-Lite in one hand, his fist close to the bright end, the long metal barrel over his shoulder. His opposite hand rested warily on the butt of his holstered pistol. He said, You know why I pulled you over?

No, Sir.

Your left tail light is burnt out.

The man’s voice was conversational, amiable. None of the usual cop attitude. Mitch relaxed slightly. A dead taillight wasn’t too significant. He had a halfway decent chance of driving away with only a verbal warning. He dangled one wrist loosely across the top of the steering wheel. He made sure he didn’t bounce his leg or brush his hand across his goatee, down his unshaved neck. He said, I didn’t realize that. I’ll get it fixed first thing. Looking the cop in the eye, showing he had nothing to hide.

The cop nodded. He shined the beam of the flashlight into the truck, panned it around the interior, across the backpack Mitch never went anywhere without. The beam landed on Step-And-A-Half in the passenger seat. What’s up with your friend?

Rye and Seven. A lot of Rye and Seven.

The cop nodded a second time. A whisper of a smile touched his lips. Disappeared. He pulled back a step, washing the flashlight across the Ford’s rusty, dinged exterior panels. The beam slowed. Stopped. He frowned.

Icy goose bumps stippled Mitch’s arms. The screech of the tinnitus rose like an air raid siren between his ears. He wanted to wince and clench his teeth and rub his ears against the pain. His mind leapt to the worst-case scenario—locked up when the tinnitus peaked.

Come on chief, let’s go. I absolutely can’t tolerate a delay. Not tonight.

He’d run before it came to that.

The cop said, I need to see your license and registration, Sir.

Chapter 3

The thing about shaving your head, Tony Carter discovered, was a guy didn’t have time to get used to the feeling like he would have, had he gone bald traditionally, one follicle at a time. Even on a nice, early December day such as this, the warm afternoon breeze felt chilly on his scalp.

Something else he hadn’t considered: shaving the top of his head where he couldn’t see was difficult. Everybody knew head wounds bled profusely, but God-damn, he barely nicked himself. By the time he got the extra-large Band-Aid stuck to his scalp, he resembled a victim in a slasher film. The Band-Aid felt enormous up there (because it was), and Carter thought he most likely looked ridiculous rather than intimidating, which had been the point of the entire head-shaving experiment.

He kept his eyes moving as he walked through the park, until he spotted a man with the stocky build, wide flat face, and protuberant black eyes of a First Generation Regressive Individual—or derogatorily, Squat—sitting on a bench. With his legs crossed at the ankles and an arm outstretched along the back of the bench, the First Gen appeared relaxed. He licked the top of a huge ice cream cone, what looked like several different flavors stacked on top of each other and stared benignly into the distance at something he alone could see.

Carter adjusted his course and headed for the bench. When he got there, he sat down uninvited and said to his boss, Afternoon.

The deputy warden faced him, fixing him in place with his bulging eyes. His huge slab of a forehead was creased in concentration. A moment later, he pointed an index finger straight up, shook it a couple of times and nodded like the answer had suddenly come to him. His long, sloping face took on an exaggerated expression of understanding. I know what’s different. You had your ears lowered.

Carter squinted at him.

You got yourself a haircut, Mr. Carter. Why?

Confused, Carter stabbed his tongue into the gap where an eye tooth used to live. Why did he get a haircut? Why does anyone get a haircut? He tried not to fidget under Tyler’s unblinking stare. He said, Why what?

What I mean to say is, why did you shave your head? You’ll have to allow it to grow back. Aside from the Band-Aid, your appearance is far too intimidating for work. You look like, I don’t know, a biker.

That was the point. As an afterthought Carter added, To look intimidating. Not like a biker, although, if his appearance gave the cons that impression, he wouldn’t have tried to dissuade them. He’d actually been thinking more along the lines of a tough guy from the movies. Someone like Bruce Willis or Jason Statham.

The inmates at Glades won’t be fooled by your new look. However, the visitors—the lawyers, the social workers, the relatives—will see you exactly as you want to be seen. Intimidating. Wouldn’t we rather have people believe we’re respectable individuals? Firm, certainly, but compassionate and caring as well? Mr. Carter, we might be guardians to murderers and rapists but our job is to rehabilitate not to intimidate.

It was difficult to tell if the deputy warden believed what he was saying—a First Gen’s simian features made reading their faces difficult—but based on how well he knew his boss, Carter suspected the man was being ironic.

Tyler’s voice hardened. Let it grow back.

Yes, Sir.

They sat in silence again, Tyler with his waffle cone and the same contented smile as earlier, Carter growing more fidgety by the second, until he couldn’t stand it any longer. He said, What are we doing here?

You need to learn to relax, Mr. Carter.

We could relax indoors, we gotta meet away from work.

Tyler swept an encompassing look from left to right. You don’t care for the park?

I like the park just fine but if we relaxed at a coffee shop, I could get a Clubhouse and beer. Or, the Landing Strip would be good. Even the shopping center. I could buy some groceries when we’re done.

I don’t care for the strippers, Mr. Carter. The whole charade. Tyler shook his head. The Landing Strip is expensive. The beer is what? Eight dollars a glass? I don’t see the point. And, no offense, but Moderns aren’t all that attractive. Perfect hair. Perfect breasts. Tiny asses, hipbones like knife blades. Mr. Carter, your kind are all too skinny. I appreciate something less obvious.

My kind? Coming from a First Gen, that was a strange thing to say. It almost sounded like Tyler preferred Squat strippers over Moderns.

Carter had never given that idea any thought. Now that it was out there in front of him, he couldn’t see there being much of an audience for a Squat stripper. In general, a Squat was, well, squat. They had short legs and thick torsos. A Third Gen might put on an entertaining show, but it would be more of a circus act than exotic dancing. A Third Gen wasn’t human, no matter what anyone said. First Gens though? They looked pretty much normal, bulkier than a Modern and maybe a little bit retarded, and that wasn’t something anyone wanted to see, a bulky retarded stripper.

Did they?

Deputy Warden Tyler continued lazily licking his cone. Carter thought about how tasty a clubhouse would be, either as an early dinner or late afternoon snack, and he thought another strike against Squat strippers was all the hair. Squats—First, Second, and Third Gens, didn’t matter which—were way, way too hairy.

He had to acknowledge, styles changed. He flipped through a fifty-year-old Playboy magazine in an antique store once. It seemed nobody in the early seventies, men nor women, knew how to work a razor. Back then questionable grooming must have been stylish and acceptable. Maybe one day thick thatches of hair from head to toe would become fashionable again, but he prayed it didn’t happen. He’d run away screaming if he slid a girlfriend’s panties down her thighs and saw that kind of carpeting. That much hair didn’t belong anywhere other than a woman’s head.

A hairy Squat stripper? Carter shuddered. It was a repugnant thought. He said, My point being, we could have gone anywhere.

I’ve got another appointment after you and I are done, Mr. Carter. A man who has a relationship with Mother Nature. He paused, then, Did you compensate Colin McTavish appropriately?

Carter breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, safer ground. Terrain on which he was confident and, apparently, the reason for the after-hours meeting. He answered, McTavish is in solitary confinement. He expected that. I made sure he gets extra yard time. I turned the crappy programming off, so he’s got decent television. I gave him some magazines. He’s living better in the box than he was in general population.

What about the individuals who assisted him?

I told McTavish, ‘I can’t look after your guys like I’m looking after you.’ He said he understood. He’d square it with his guys.